


Tell Me You Don't Think About It

by fieryphrazes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mary's somewhere in the distance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-03-07 20:02:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3181343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fieryphrazes/pseuds/fieryphrazes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock receives an unexpected visitor the night before John's wedding. Something happened between them, something Sherlock believes John regrets. But that couldn't be farther from the truth, and John can't let it go so easily.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock jerked awake, disturbed by the heavy knocking on his door. He shuffled out of bed and pulled his dressing gown over his shoulders as he walked to the door. He squinted at John, a silhouette in the bright hallway. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked, certain John wouldn’t wake him for something less than vital. He observed: John was breathing heavily, sweating slightly, and his hands were trembling. As John shifted his weight from side to side, Sherlock stepped aside to let John inside. 

Finally, John spoke. “Sherlock,” he practically breathed the word out, “I need… I need to stay with you tonight.” 

Sherlock tensed. “John, that time is long past.” His tongue felt foreign in his mouth. “The wedding is tomorrow.” John ducked his head at the reminder. Sherlock leaned against the wall and pressed his head back, feeling the steady surface behind him. John’s hand reached out and gently circled his wrist. 

“Sherlock,” he whispered, bringing his other hand to Sherlock’s neck. “I need you. Please…” he trailed off. But Sherlock stood firm, his eyes closed and his hands limp by his sides. “Please let me stay.”

Sherlock took a deep breath in. “You would regret it, John. In the morning, and for the rest of your marriage.” John shook his head and leaned into the crook of Sherlock’s neck. He brushed his lips over Sherlock’s shoulder and pressed his forehead into the smooth skin there. 

“No,” John said, voice breaking just enough to give him away. “No. I could never regret you.” Sherlock hummed his disagreement, and John moved his fingers to Sherlock’s face, smoothing over the furrowed brow. “I need you. I can’t do this without you.” 

Sherlock bit his lip and grimaced as he said, “You have to. You made this choice, John. You dated, you proposed, you moved out. You knew what you were giving up.” John was silent, but Sherlock could feel his face contract in a frown as it nestled into his neck. 

“Tell me you don’t think about it,” John used his captain voice. Sherlock used all his self-control not to groan; John was pressing into him from shoulder to knee, and it was sorely tempting. But Sherlock was familiar with temptation, and had become rather good at resisting it. 

“I can’t tell you that. I can’t lie to you,” Sherlock swallowed. “But it doesn’t matter. You’ve made your choice.” John’s shoulders shook. 

“Sherlock,” he whispered. “Please.” Sherlock paused. 

“You may stay. But that is all,” he warned. John took a small step out of Sherlock’s space and smiled up at him. 

 

20 minutes later found Sherlock lying on his back in the bed, an arm around John’s shoulder as he curled into Sherlock’s side. John’s arm rested on Sherlock’s bare chest, drawing lazy patterns across his ribs. Sherlock shivered. John’s breath against his neck was something he had not expected to feel again; the compact body pressed against him, legs tangled with his own. The smell of him was familiar and comforting, but proximity made it heady and foreign. Sherlock ran his fingers over John’s spine, silently counting vertebrae, and let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. 

“I need this,” John said simply. “I need you.” He lifted his head from Sherlock’s shoulder, trying to look him in the eyes. 

“Do not break the rules,” Sherlock felt John’s movement but kept his eyes closed. “You will hate yourself tomorrow. You are too good not to regret it.” He could sense the contradiction bubbling up in John, but he spoke first. “This has always been available to you. You chose Mary instead. I have come to terms with that decision, but it must be final. You cannot go back.” 

John bit his lip and stared hard at Sherlock in the darkness. 

“What if I made a mistake?”

Sherlock turned his face to the ceiling. “Then that is a realization arrived at much too late.” 

John detangled himself from Sherlock and sat up on the bed. “No, it isn’t,” he insisted. “Sherlock, I love you. I love you ten times as much as I love Mary, as I’ve ever loved anyone.” 

Sherlock sneered. “What a convenient time for this confession, when I am finally unattainable. Tell me, John, how much did you love me when I asked you to stay with me? When I begged you not to leave Baker Street?” 

John looked at Sherlock hard. After a moment he said, “You never asked me to stay.” 

Sherlock shot up in bed. “Of course I did!” he almost shouted, gesturing violently with his hands. “I asked you every single night we spent together. How could I have made it any clearer?” 

“Sherlock, I…” John took a ragged breath. “You never asked me to stay. I thought you wanted me to go, I thought…” John’s voice was smaller now. “I thought it didn’t mean anything to you.” 

Sherlock laughed, a harsh sound in the dark room. “Oh yes, the genius doesn’t feel love, he merely needs satisfaction to keep the transport going. I’m sure you found that easy to believe.” Sherlock sank back into the pillow, almost fuming. John could have kicked himself, but that fire only made him want Sherlock more. He took a chance. 

John swung one leg over Sherlock’s hip so he was straddling him. He leaned forward, nose to nose with Sherlock and hands on either side of his head. 

“Stop me,” he said, “and I won’t try again.” But Sherlock didn’t move. He just stared into John’s eyes with a cold, distant curiosity. John took his chance. He pressed soft kisses onto Sherlock’s neck, moving slowly toward his jaw and down that line once he came to it. He wound one hand in Sherlock’s hair and brought their lips together, almost; he held for a moment, feeling the distance between their mouths, the bridge of his nose pressed against Sherlock’s. A beat, and then he closed the distance, pouring everything he could into Sherlock. The apologies, the affection, and, he hoped, the truth. About how he felt, and about what had happened between them. Sherlock was slow to respond, but John didn’t retreat. He kept his slow insistence, trying to prove his constancy to Sherlock this way. After a few minutes, Sherlock’s body rolled against his, and his hands moved to John’s sides. John smiled and hummed against Sherlock’s teeth, pushing his way past and letting the heat between them grow. John drew back just a hair. 

“I think about this every day,” he whispered. Sherlock hummed in agreement and pushed forward to meet John again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cautious beginning of John and Sherlock's more complicated friendship

2 Years Earlier

The door of Baker Street opened with a bang. John let out an exhilarated laugh as he whirled in the door and collapsed on the sofa, while Sherlock trailed behind him grinning. 

“Brilliant,” John said, leaning his head back against the cushion. “I love a good chase.” Sherlock swirled to the sofa and sat down next to John, mirroring his position. After a moment of warm silence, Sherlock turned his head to examine John’s profile. When he felt Sherlock’s eyes on him John turned towards him and smiled. The silence continued, heating slowly, as Sherlock’s eyes scanned John’s face, focusing particularly on the laugh lines radiating from the corners of his eyes. 

John found himself moving slowly towards Sherlock, his shoulders sliding against the sofa as he leaned to rest his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock froze for a moment, unused to the contact, but soon relaxed into the touch. After a few minutes he could sense John’s neck beginning to crick, and so maneuvered his arm around John’s shoulders, creating a shallow nest for his head.

They sat like this for some time, heads leaning together as Sherlock ran his hand lightly over John’s arm. John turned his head to look at Sherlock, who raised his eyebrows in question. With a slow smile, John brushed the back of his hand against Sherlock’s knee. Sherlock leaned forward slowly, anxiously, but when John’s smile didn’t falter he leaned his forehead against John’s. With his eyes closed, he inhaled softly and closed the distance between them. 

It started slow and warm, as the two men explored. John brought his hand to Sherlock’s face and cupped his jaw, running his thumb over a cheekbone. They both took a breath, and Sherlock traced the line of John’s nose with his own. 

“Is this alright?” John asked breathlessly. Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

“I certainly would have stopped if it weren’t,” he said crossly. John smiled and brought their lips together again. He guided Sherlock backwards, laying him down on the sofa. Sherlock sighed into his mouth and found the hem of John’s shirt, slipping his fingers underneath it. John broke the kiss long enough to pull off the offending fabric, and went to work on Sherlock’s buttons. 

“Shit!” John exclaimed as he struggled with one; he had always doubted people who couldn’t get simple buttons undone in the heat of the moment, but here he was, driven to distraction. Sherlock let out an amused huff, which drew John’s eyes back to his face. The trust he saw there took him aback; and John decided in that instant that this would not go farther tonight. He abandoned the remaining buttons. Another good snog, but that was it. He couldn’t trifle with that trust. 

“Sherlock…” John’s voice was low and uneasy. “This is all for now, alright? Is that okay with you?” Sherlock nodded, and John looked relieved. “Brilliant. But let’s have another first,” John said as he smoothed a hand over Sherlock’s collarbone and leaned back in. 

 

The next time, they were on a case in Edinburgh. The hotel had mercifully been nearly-full; only one room, and only one bed. John had not been able to keep his mind off the kisses he and Sherlock had shared weeks before; but respecting Sherlock’s space, he hadn’t approached him again. Sherlock would say something if he wanted to repeat the experience, of that John was sure. But he was pleased with the proximity the hotel would bring. 

It had not been a successful first day. It had rained rather heavily, leaving Sherlock looking like a drowned rat, and clues were being more stubborn than he expected. The information he needed simply refused to surface. When they returned to the hotel room, Sherlock huffed and sat on the edge of the bed. John went to the bathroom and brought back a towel. Sherlock stared blankly when John offered it to him, so John sighed and started in drying Sherlock’s hair himself, settling on the bed behind him. 

“You’re soaking,” he informed Sherlock. “A normal person would want to dry off, warm up.” Sherlock made a derisive noise. 

“As if you wish I were normal,” he snarled. John rolled his eyes. The case was certainly taking its toll, then. John dropped the towel on the bed and came to sit next to Sherlock, legs crossed on the bed as he faced him. 

“There’s nothing we can do until tomorrow,” John told him gently, reaching a hand out to Sherlock’s shoulder. “It’s been days since you slept,” he said sternly. Sherlock waved his hand to indicate his lack of concern. 

“I need to think,” he said, emphasizing his final word. John shook his head. 

“You’ll think better if you’re not running on fumes. Come on, let’s go to bed.” When he heard that, Sherlock snapped his head to meet John’s eyes. After a moment of searching John’s face, he nodded. 

When they were tucked neatly in bed, John turned off his bedside lamp. The darkness was silent for a moment, but then John heard the covers rustling. Sherlock’s arm wound snaked its way under John’s pillow, and John turned toward his bedmate. 

“What’s that, then?” he asked. Sherlock made a noncommittal noise. “Alright, you big lug, come on.” With John’s consent, Sherlock grasped John’s shoulder with one hand, maneuvering him so that John was nestled into Sherlock’s shoulder. John sighed and relaxed into Sherlock’s frame, wrapping his arm around Sherlock’s waist and draping one leg across Sherlock’s. John had been in this embrace many times, but never in this role. He found it strangely comforting to let Sherlock take the dominant position, running his hand lightly over John’s spine and pressing a kiss into his hair. John hummed in approval and clung to Sherlock tighter. 

When he woke the next morning, Sherlock was supremely happy. He relished in the heat around him and took in the sensations around him. During the night, he and John had turned; now, Sherlock had his back to John, whose arms were wrapped loosely around Sherlock as he pressed into his back; one arm wound around his waist and the other circled from under Sherlock’s head to rest on his exposed arm. 

John startled awake when Sherlock jumped out of bed like a shot.   
“Of course!” he cried. John rubbed his eyes with one hand, adjusting to the light. Sherlock paused and looked thoughtfully at the blank wall. “Quite pedestrian, really. Like something from a bad novel.” 

“Mind filling me in?” John asked. Sherlock looked at John as if he were quite stupid not to understand. 

“The butler did it,” he announced. John smiled smugly. 

“I told you sleep would help,” he told Sherlock, who rolled his eyes. 

“It wasn’t the sleep,” Sherlock said. “It was the monotony. Your heartbeat is extremely focusing.” John looked at him quizzically. “White noise, John. The steadiness is quite effective.” Sherlock looked him up and down, sitting propped up on his elbow in the bed. “We may have to repeat it.” 

John grinned.


	3. Chapter 3

In Between

 

“John, this is intolerable,” Sherlock groaned. John looked over from his book and smiled fondly. 

“What’s that, then?” he asked. Sherlock pulled himself up onto his elbow and faced John on the bed. 

“I find that I can’t think of anything else,” Sherlock told him dryly. John furrowed his brow. “You, John. You’re incredibly distracting.” 

John raised an eyebrow. “Once you told me the opposite,” he said. Sherlock huffed. 

“That was before this… affection began,” Sherlock sounded puzzled and unaccustomed to the idea. John laughed. 

“Is that your way of saying you’d like a bit of affection right now?” John asked. Sherlock shrugged his shoulders noncommittally. John put a marker in his book and set it on the nightstand. When he moved to take off his reading glasses, Sherlock frowned. 

“I rather like those on you,” Sherlock told him, almost embarrassed. John smiled. 

“Well, I won’t be able to kiss you very well with them on,” he informed Sherlock, who let out a small pout but acquiesced. John grinned and leaned in. 

 

“John,” Sherlock breathed. “Oh, John.” He was moving far too slowly, but Sherlock would be damned if he asked him to hurry up. It was simply too much, and how a mere physical activity could be too much for a mind such as his was baffling. But Sherlock couldn’t devote even a small portion of his brain to solving that particular problem now, not when John was doing such fascinating things to him. 

John worked above Sherlock, sweat darkening his hair from the color of honey to molasses. When Sherlock spoke, John bit his lip and looked to his face. “Fuck, Sherlock,” John gasped. “You’re incredible.” At this Sherlock took John’s face in his hands and kissed him soundly. John groaned into his mouth, and his body went taut before he collapsed onto Sherlock’s shoulder. 

Half an hour later, Sherlock stared a hole into the ceiling and smoked a cigarette. Somehow, John never seemed to mind if he smoked after sex. Occasionally he even had one himself. John lay on his elbow, tracing the moles on Sherlock’s torso with a lazy finger. Sherlock exhaled smoke.

“It’s Pisces,” he said. John looked at him confused. “The marks. They make the constellation Pisces.” 

“It’s unlike you to bother with stars,” John said. Sherlock shrugged. 

“Someone told me that once. I decided to keep it.” John smiled at him. 

“What about this one?” he asked, moving his hand to a cluster near Sherlock’s left shoulder. Sherlock frowned. 

“It’s nothing I know of,” he told John, who hummed and leaned to kiss the spot. 

“I think it’s something new,” John told him very quietly. Sherlock knew John meant something by it, but he wasn’t sure what. So he nodded solemnly and didn’t say anything. John took the cigarette from between Sherlock’s fingers and set it in an ashtray, allowed in the flat only for this purpose. Sherlock pulled John closer and raked a finger through his hair, examining the color and weight carefully, cataloguing every bit of John he could reach. He closed his eyes and opened up the filing cabinet where he listed John’s qualities. _Molasses,_ he remembered. _Incredible. Constellation. The feeling of John against him, of John wrapped around him, of John warming his bed from the inside out. John._

Sherlock opened his eyes, satisfied his work was done for the moment. Now he could sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fall

Sherlock stood still, phone in his outstretched hand. He paused for only a moment then stepped forward, into the empty air in front of him. 

 

He spent the next two years hunting. It was a tiring, thankless job, with no one beside him. In every cold corner of the world, Sherlock imagined the solid weight of John behind him, the warmth of a familiar body in the Eastern European chill. 

He cut and dyed his hair. He drew on scars, until he didn’t have to fake them anymore. His fingers remained dexterous while the rest of him felt numb. He was a machine, dedicated to a singular cause. Dismantling the man who would destroy John. 

He thought a million times of calling, texting, sending a postcard. He was never sure why he didn’t; surely John could act the part. Surely the knowledge that Sherlock was out there, somewhere, would comfort him. 

But he never called, and he never wrote. He relied on cryptic telegrams from Mycroft for occasional updates. The telegrams had been his brother’s idea; a quaint communiqué that was too primitive to be tampered with. 

So he waited, and he worked, and the thought of John kept him warm. 

 

The first three days, John didn’t get out of bed. Mrs. Hudson brought him a few things to eat, and tea every time she thought of it. By the third night the floor of Sherlock’s bedroom was booby-trapped with mugs. 

The first week, John didn’t leave the flat. Mycroft came by to offer distant condolences (why John wasn’t the one offering condolences, he wasn’t sure) and to assure him that Sherlock’s portion of the rent would be paid as long as necessary. The thought of leaving Baker Street turned John’s stomach and he had to run to the bathroom. 

By the first month, John was working a few days a week. He found that was all he could stand before exhaustion set in. He wondered how he managed before Sherlock, when he was such a mess after him. 

Within the first year, John met Mary. He imagined her lying next to him, rather than Sherlock; a fantasy that could come true, and did. She was sweet, and funny, and there was a spark in her that reminded John of Sherlock. 

He almost convinced himself he was happy again. 

 

John was making tea when Sherlock came home. He slipped in quietly, and John nearly dropped the kettle when he turned around. 

“Jesus! Who…” John trailed off and saw past the short, copper hair and blue jeans. “Sherlock,” he breathed. 

Sherlock took a step closer to John and put his hands up defensively. It was clear he was terrified, that he didn’t know how John would react to his reappearance. 

“I can explain everything,” he said. John laughed.

“You bloody well better,” John said, and then pulled Sherlock in for a bone-crushing hug. He could feel the air pushing out of Sherlock’s lungs, feel his already thin frame contract further. John moved his hands up Sherlock’s back, feeling at his exposed ribs. “Up on the table. Let’s take a look at you.” 

Sherlock huffed but was obedient; he sat on the edge of the kitchen table while John went to get his bag. He pulled out a stethoscope and pressed it to Sherlock’s back. 

“Deep breath,” he said, all business except for a twinkle in his eye and a ragged tone to his voice. Sherlock obeyed, and John raised an eyebrow. John poked and prodded for about fifteen minutes before he was finally satisfied. ‘A bit thin, banged up, but nothing to worry about’ was his official diagnosis. 

“Now that the tedium’s done,” Sherlock said, “I suppose I should explain.” John looked at him expectantly from the sofa, and Sherlock sat next to him, close enough to touch. And then he started.

The story spanned from the dark streets of London to the twisting medina of Tangiers, from alleys in St. Petersburg to harbors in Naples. Sherlock was not a storyteller, but John saw the colors of the places even through his sparse tone. When Sherlock had finished, he felt a twisting in his stomach that he couldn’t name. 

“You did all that alone?” He asked, then realized with horror what it was. Jealousy. Sherlock looked at him, confused. 

“Of course I was alone.” Sherlock looked even more baffled when John smiled. “Did you think I had a new partner? John, I did this for you. To come home to you.” The distance between them sparked, and John reached for Sherlock’s hand. He leaned in and kissed Sherlock’s cheek, and Sherlock felt a warmth that was certain to show on his face. Sherlock Holmes, blushing, he thought disdainfully. 

“When’s the last time you slept?” Sherlock frowned as he tried to remember. John laughed before he could respond. “Well, it’s gone three. I need to go to bed.” John stood up and looked at Sherlock, who was still sitting anxiously. “Are you coming?”

Sherlock was up like a shot to follow John into his old bedroom.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the wedding, y'all. Don't hate me.

In the soft glow of the reception hall, Sherlock’s eyes lost their usual focus. As the people around him ate and drank and laughed, Sherlock sat motionless, the slightest frown on his face. Someone tapped a knife against their wine glass. A cheer went up, and Sherlock resolutely ignored the heads that turned toward John and Mary, and the applause that followed their kiss. 

Eventually, Lestrade roused Sherlock from his reverie. It was time for the speech. The best man speech. Best friend. Sherlock stood stiffly and made his way to the front of the room. 

With the first step, he felt the ghost of John at his back. The constancy, the measured breathing that kept him sane through so many fervid nights. The second step, that look in John’s eyes when Sherlock went just a few hours too long without sleep, or a day too long without food – the concern that said I care about you. I would be lost without you. Don’t let yourself leave me. Sherlock was once again bent over in Molly’s bathtub, scrubbing the ginger from his hair before he came home to John. It took hours, but he had an inexplicable need to look like himself, to be the same for John. Reassuring John that he truly was home after the first of many nightmares woke him. The wicked curl of his lip when John egged him on during a chase; always talking sense, but his smile saying something entirely more reckless. 

Then, last night. Sherlock lying awake for hours, slipping out of the warm bed long before John woke. He had dreaded John’s reaction in the harsh light; Sherlock would rather let the night slip away than be sure of John’s regret. 

Things were going to change. Things could not stay the same. But then, nothing had been the same since the morning after his return, when John had turned to Sherlock in bed and told him about Mary. 

Nothing had been the same since Sherlock fell. So he cleared his throat, and he said: 

“John Watson is the best man I have ever known.”

It went on from there. Sherlock couldn’t remember what he had said, after the fact, but Molly sniffled, and Mrs. Hudson reached for her hanky, and Lestrade clapped him on the shoulder when he returned to the table. He regarded all of those as signs that he had not broken any absurd, unwritten rules about wedding toasts. When John caught his eye later in the evening, something Sherlock had studiously avoided all night, there was a sadness there, tempered with sweet. Affection and regret. Sherlock felt a prick behind his eyes and stood up suddenly, cutting Mrs. Hudson off in the middle of a story about “her boys.”

He heard the footsteps as he sat on the edge of the curb, his strong fingers ironing creases into a discarded napkin. Sherlock had expected Molly, but Lestrade was the one who found him. And he had brought liquor. _I don’t give him enough credit_ , Sherlock thought briefly, then took a swig of whiskey.

“You’re going to miss him,” Lestrade had the wisdom not to make it a question. Sherlock took another drink. “He loves you, you know. Maybe not the same way, but he does.” Sherlock huffed in response. 

“If that is based on a misguided belief about John’s heterosexuality, let me avow you of that notion. John stood at an altar today with someone else, and it has nothing to do with my gender. Do not make that choice less of a choice. It is what it is. He knew he could have stayed. If he loved me, it would be in exactly the same way. The fact is, he doesn’t.” 

Another long swig, while Lestrade shook his head. “You know that’s not true,” he told Sherlock, who just shrugged. 

“The truth is often improbable. If John loved me, he wouldn’t have stayed with someone else after I came home. I would have been enough for him.” Lestrade looked at him curiously.

“Have you ever thought that maybe you were too much?” Sherlock shook his head. 

“For everyone else, maybe. Not for John.”


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair in frustration and paced around the crime scene. This was intolerable, he thought. He hadn’t had this much trouble thinking since he’d gotten sober. But this time, there was no end in sight; the block was more than subtracting a troublesome element.

This time, something was lacking. He had a strong suspicion that something was John.

That thought only served to infuriate him more. Lestrade glanced over curiously when he let out a groan of frustration. 

“Pull yourself together,” he told Sherlock, who rolled his eyes. At that, Lestrade grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him away from Anderson, Donovan and the rest of the useless team, standing about waiting for Sherlock’s latest deduction.

“Look,” Lestrade said, “I’ve been patient, but it’s been months. Now, if you aren’t going to do something about it, stop mooning about. And don’t pretend that this is all his fault; I know you’ve been avoiding him, and frankly you’re near useless to me when he’s not about making you tolerable.”

Sherlock stared. He’d thought that, perhaps, Lestrade would still be on his side in this matter. He sneered and was started a nasty response when Lestrade interrupted him.

“Sherlock, I know you’re suffering, and God knows it’s hard to see you like this, but you need to do something about it. Either move on or talk to him about it.” Lestrade reached out an arm and patted Sherlock’s shoulder. He continued quietly.

“He’s struggling, too, you know. It’s not all sunshine and roses over there.” Sherlock looked to the ground and pointedly did not respond. He was sure that whatever John was dealing with, it didn’t compare to his own ordeal. Being left alone was quite different than leaving, especially when it was a new, pretty wife that prompted the leaving.

“Alright, then,” Lestrade said. “Let’s take a deep breath and solve this damn case.”

 

Even when Sherlock was working more slowly than usual, he was far ahead of most detectives at the Yard. The case was solved in a few days – not a record time, by any means, but the fact that the pieces came together was reassuring to Lestrade. Although he was positive that Sherlock did not have the same view of the matter. 

 

When he and John met for their weekly pint, he debated whether to share what had happened, how Sherlock was doing. But two pints made the decision for him, and he spilled the story in detail. 

John was quiet, his eyes trained on the half-empty glass in front of him. When Lestrade had finished talking and looked at him expectantly, he was surprised to see the level of hurt on John’s face.

“I really thought he’d be alright without me,” John said in a broken voice. Lestrade finished his drink and signaled for another.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm feeling generous today.

A rustling noise woke John in the dead of night. He stayed perfectly still, his senses on high alert, searching the darkness silently. He felt the mattress dip next to him and had the unmistakable feeling a predator was slinking its way toward him. A hand skated over his hip, and John stayed frozen – out of fear instead of precaution, this time. 

When a low voice broke the silence, murmuring something John couldn’t make out, he jumped into action, flipping Sherlock onto his back and devouring him. The mood instantly changed; no longer predator, Sherlock was delighted to play the part of prey. A bubbling sound escaped from his throat as John pulled him apart like taffy, measuring the spaces between his wrist and palm, neck and collarbone. 

And then John woke up sweating, his wife sleeping a respectable distance away. 

 

Sherlock sat in his customary armchair, sharpening a pencil attentively. The shavings curled over his knee and down to his feet, one long strand of delicate wood. John stood in the door of 221B and admired the sight. Of course Sherlock had realized he was there; but John was loath to interrupt such an odd task. Sherlock surely had reasons, and no doubt the chain of shavings would exonerate or convict some poor suspect. 

So he stood there, a fond smile on his face, until Sherlock acknowledged him. It was just a quick flick of the eyes, but John smiled wider and sat in the armchair across from Sherlock.

Sherlock was nearly down to the nub of the pencil; neither man spoke for several minutes, and Sherlock continued to grind away at the shrinking piece of wood, until there was a scrape of metal against metal. He carelessly dropped the sharpener and brushed the scraps off his lap. 

“You’ve been dreaming about me,” he told John, whose face blushed pink. “Dull. You know it doesn’t mean a thing.” Then, more to himself than to John, he added, “Random neural firings.” John cleared his throat. 

“The thing is, they’re not,” he said to Sherlock. “I’ve been a bloody idiot. I was so scared when you came back, scared that you’d leave again and I’d fall apart all over. But you’re not going to go, are you?” John asked quietly. 

Sherlock looked at him suspiciously, but shook his head no. 

“Then maybe you should take some time, decide if the upstairs bedroom is still available. I’d like to come back, Sherlock, but only if that’s what you want, too.”

After saying the most extraordinary thing Sherlock had ever heard, John stood up and left. Like it was nothing, like hearing those words hadn’t shaken his world and altered the fabric of reality. 

He was reaching for the door to the street when Sherlock clattered to the doorway at the top of the stairs. 

“It’s not,” he called down. He could see John’s shoulders tense as he turned around. A small nod of the head, then another movement to go. 

“But if you don’t mind sharing…” Sherlock trailed off as a wide smile broke out on John’s face. It was the most fascinating thing Sherlock had ever seen; he knew he could spend a lifetime studying it and never truly understand it, let alone tire of it. 

John took the stairs two at a time, but hesitated once he reached the top. His fingertips grazed Sherlock’s left shoulder uncertainly before dropping to his side. 

“I’ll start bringing my things tomorrow.” The smile didn’t falter, and Sherlock found that he was inexplicably reflecting the same sentiment right back at John.


	8. Chapter 8

“You’re a real piece of work, Sherlock,” John said, shaking his head grimly. Sherlock looked up from the kitchen table, where he was devotedly taking notes on larvae, currently thriving in John’s leftovers. “You know I was meant to take those to work in the morning.”

Sherlock shrugged and narrowed his eyes, turning his singular attention to John’s inscrutable expression. He wasn’t angry, not really; is it possible that John was teasing him?

Very possible, Sherlock decided, and let out a small, sly smile. 

“I’m sure I’ll find a way to make it up to you,” he said. John grinned, the charade broken.

“Git,” he said fondly. 

 

Once Sherlock had made it up to John, with a double order of tikka masala and a very convincing apology, they collapsed onto the bed. Sherlock nosed his way into John’s space, and John stroked his arm softly, pressing a kiss into his hair. 

Sherlock found himself thinking in half time, a very rare occurrence. But it had been happening more and more often since John returned to him. A lazy thought, and a slow train that followed it, blocking out the whirring gears and deductions. This thought was very slow, indeed. It started with the warmth John shared with him; moved on to the sensation of being pressed against someone so perfectly; and finally, ended with a realization.

“Oh,” Sherlock breathed. John raised an eyebrow, and Sherlock could feel it, out of sight. “This is why people like this.”

John chuckled. “You’re just now figuring that out, are you?” Sherlock imitated a scowl that he didn’t feel.

“I find that I’m quite… safe with you, John.” Sherlock hesitated, searching for the right words to communicate the incredible peace he felt. “I’m warm and comfortable, and you’ve just taken spectacular care of me, and I find that I trust you completely.” John was quiet for a moment.

“You know, Sherlock,” John’s voice was surprisingly rough. “That’s what people want, but not very many actually get it. It takes a lot of looking to find that.”

Sherlock hummed a bit. John waited for a more verbal response, but Sherlock had drifted off, safe and secure and very worn out.


End file.
